Sprinkle All The Way (Evergreen Lake: Under the Mistletoe)

Chapter 8

eight

NOAH

Violet wastes no time arriving at the shop on Tuesday morning, knocking on the front door at 9:00 a.m. I get to the door and unlock it on her second knock. I’ve been awake for two hours double checking the shop to ensure everything is perfect. Most of my time back in the shop has been spent cleaning, since no one has been here since Ginger died, and there were multiple appliances that needed to be fixed.

“Shit!” Violet yelps when I swing the door open, her glove-covered hand almost hitting me in the face.

I dodge getting punched as I bend and wrap one arm around her waist and spin us inside the shop. The heat of her seeps through her puffy white coat, and my body yells at me. I’m dying to touch more of her. I’ve been dying to touch every inch of her since I saw her last week. The other night I had to leave her room because I couldn’t take it. I wanted to fuse her on top of me and make her scream until she forgot her ex’s name. Today she’s got her red lipstick on and the desire to push her against the door and see if I can mess it up hasn’t gone away. Depositing her on the floor, I quickly shut and lock the door before I act on any of these out of hand thoughts .

“We might need to discuss your customer greeting if that’s what you plan on doing. Because I don’t think everyone will enjoy it,” she quips.

“You enjoyed it?” I smirk, leaning forward and keeping my hands behind my back so I don’t reach out and pull her close to me.

Her cheeks flush redder, her nose already red from the cold, and a sense of pride swells in my heart. “That’s not what I said.” She flicks my forehead like I did to her the other night. “Why did you drag me in here anyway?”

I straighten, putting some distance between us. “I didn’t want anyone seeing you come in here. You don’t really need to be associated with me.” I shrug, walking around her and toward the kitchen. With my luck, Bernice would see her coming in here and call the deputies saying I kidnapped her.

She follows, bumping into the counter with a small “shit” and following me through the kitchen door. “If they got to know the real you, they would love you.”

“I highly doubt that,” I mumble. She’s never been interested in loving me, so why would they? “There’s a coat rack back there.” I gesture to the door on the far end of the kitchen.

Violet sighs, disappearing through the door only to return a second later sans coat, gloves, and hat. She pulls her long brown hair out of her sweater, letting it drape over the dark green woven material and over her breasts. My mouth goes dry and I avert my gaze away from her chest and back to her face, which is also a bad idea when I land on her moving red lips and realize I’ve missed whatever she was saying.

“Sorry, what?”

She rolls her eyes. “I was saying you need to make more of an effort around town.”

“Who says I don’t make an effort?” I bite back .

She crosses her arms and tilts her head at me, her annoyed expression only making me smile.

“Fine. Explain.” I lean against one of the counters.

“You need to show them you’re not scary. That you smile and have fun ,” she explains. “Get your Christmas spirit showing.”

“That sounds awful.” I wrinkle my nose at the idea of mingling with the town. The Christmas stuff I’m fine with, but the idea of talking to a bunch of people who hate me? Not as appealing.

“I’ll help you, we can go together.” She gestures between us. Everyone always loved her when we were in high school. It’s part of the reason I stayed away from her in public; I didn’t want her to get tainted by my bad reputation. Even now, I don’t want that, but I need help if I’m going to get anyone to come to this shop.

“And if I say no?” I ask.

“I’ll leave,” she counters. And damn it, she knows my weakness.

“Fine.” I fold immediately, hesitant to lose her again for another second. “But I need to show you around here first.”

“That works. Plus what I have in mind isn’t open yet,” she grins at me.

“What is it?”

“Ice skating, Christmas Festival, maybe a sleigh ride too!” She gets louder with each item until she’s yelling. “I missed Christmas last year because my ex wanted us to spend it with his family. I’d love to do everything this year, which works out for you,” she explains.

I’ve done my best to actively avoid all things town related since being home, but they seem less daunting if she is going to be there with me. Ever since the Christmas tree incident I avoided all things Christmas Festival. The look on my face must give away my feelings because she keeps going before I can continue.

“Listen, it sounds horrible, but you can’t reopen this shop and expect everyone to flock in here.” She gestures around the room. “They all think you were in jail, and you know how they are. They won’t believe us if we tell them you weren’t actually in jail unless we show them you’re good first. And that you won’t ruin anything.”

The use of “us” and “we” in that sentence spreads warmth through my chest, but I can’t show her that yet. “You mean I can’t bake cookies in silence and live a life of solitude on Main Street?” I tease instead.

“Noah. . .” Her annoyed expression returns.

“Violet. . .” I retort. Her eyebrows raise and I can tell she’s one teasing comment away from yelling at me. She always liked putting me in my place, and I always enjoyed being yelled at by her more than I was willing to admit. “Fine,” I relent.

“You also need to decorate your windows.” She points toward the front of the store where the windows are still covered in newspaper.

“Do I have to?” I sigh. Every year there’s a window decorating contest for all of December. All the local businesses on Main Street participate and a winner is crowned on the last day of the festival.

“Your windows are currently covered in newspapers. Yes, you have to,” she tells me sternly.

“I don’t have any decorations,” I tell her.

She huffs. “Have you looked around? I’m sure Ginger has some somewhere.”

“Fine, you’re right. I’ll do whatever you say without complaining, but I make no promises for any faces I make. And I’ll look for the decorations. ”

“Perfect.” She nods her head once in satisfaction. “Now give me the tour.”

I walk her through everything in the kitchen starting on the farside. She nods along as I explain how the large mixer works, which reminds me that I need to look into ordering a second one. I point out which ovens are the trickiest of the four and tell her the top one can’t be on if the flash freezer is on or it will trip the breaker—another thing I haven’t gotten around to fixing yet. The middle of the kitchen is equipped with large stainless steel tables with various supplies underneath them while the back has a large sink for dishes.

Leading her to the pantry in the corner I tell her about all the ingredients and why they’re organized the way they are when I realize she isn’t paying attention. Instead, her back is to me and she’s staring into the empty kitchen. I wonder if she’s having trouble being here without Ginger. When I first got here, I sat on the counter not moving for several days—letting the memories of Ginger take over until I was comfortable enough to invade her space without it feeling like an intrusion. Her presence hasn’t left though, and I’m ninety percent sure she might be haunting the shop. I can still see her running around putting together a last minute order that she blamed Bernice for not getting it in time, but we all knew Ginger forgot about it.

“Vi,” I say to get her attention, reaching and placing my finger and thumb on her jaw to turn her head my way. “You need to pay attention. Did you need a notepad?” I ask. She was always better at studying than I was, and her notes always shocked me with how thorough they were.

Her eyes widen, and it takes all of my strength not to guide her to my mouth. We stay frozen for what I’m sure is an eternity before she breaks the silence with a whispered, “Sorry, no. I can remember everything. It’s weird being here without her.”

“Don’t apologize. I had a hard time with it too,” I tell her .

“It’s a lot to take in,” she admits. “I don’t really bake, so this is all new to me.”

“What was your previous job?” I ask, knowing the answer but hesitant to leave this small space yet and attempting to redirect her focus on something else.

“I did project management. So the farthest thing from baking,” she lets out a small laugh.

“True. We can go slow,” I tell her. “Plus I haven’t even shown you the mess of the office. That’s where you’ll be most helpful. I’m a lost cause when it comes to that stuff. Want to check that out and bake your first batch tomorrow?” I don’t want to overwhelm her with cooking, and the paperwork might be easier for her today. All of this stuff came back to me easily once I got started, but I know it won’t be the same for her.

“Yeah, that will help,” she agrees, following me out of the pantry and toward the office.

“Also for tomorrow, make sure you don’t wear a sweater, it’s going to get hot in here,” I tell her, spinning around and leaning against the door frame. Her cheeks flush and I realize what I said. “You know, from the ovens,” I clarify.

“Right, right.” She nods. “Good tip.”

“Anyway, here’s the office,” I say, moving out of the way and letting her into the madness. The space is tiny with several filing cabinets and one desk stacked with piles of paper.

She walks in, and the lightbulb that needs changing soon illuminates her in a maddeningly soft way that has my hands itching to grab ahold of her and never let her leave my side. Maybe after she helps me open the store, she’ll leave instead of torturing me with her presence.

“Is any of this organized?” she asks wearily, slowly spinning toward me with her eyebrows high and eyes wide.

“Not really, but when was Ginger ever organized?” I laugh because if I don’t I might cry at all the work she left behind for me to figure out.

“Well, guess it’s time to get to work,” she says, rolling up her sleeves and I see two small butterfly tattoos on her wrist that I want to touch.

By lunch time, I decide to call it a day because we’re both already exhausted trying to decode Ginger’s messy handwriting and filing system. She agrees and bundles up, moving around like she still isn’t comfortable in the space. Then she’s out the door and I’m left standing alone in the kitchen with her floral scent lingering in the air.